


As heavy as a history book can be, I will carry it with me

by Valhalla



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mentions of kidnapping, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 09:58:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/637686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valhalla/pseuds/Valhalla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-finale S1. True love isn't easy. Four times Jim almost asked Kathryn out, and one time she did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As heavy as a history book can be, I will carry it with me

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Dry the River.
> 
> Takes place some time after 1x19. Pretty canon-compliant, though makes minor tweaks to the timeline, etc.

i.

He spends almost an hour in the hospital gift shop, debating between daisies and carnations, and then another dozen minutes deciding what should go on the card.

"Name?" The florist doesn't even bother looking up, pen poised against the cheery pink-and-green paper. "Who's it from?"

"Uh --" _Guy who found your car and hasn't stopped thinking you? Gym teacher who's spent way too much time hanging around the hospital lobby since you got admitted? Is it weird to leave my number for someone who's under medical observation?_ "Jim. I guess."

The florist quirks one eyebrow in a way that broadcasts volumes of sarcasm, scrawls his name and hands the card to him. She looks about ready to sigh in relief when he pauses, studying the spray of daisies _and_ carnations in his hands.

"Sir?"

_Marigolds_ , he thinks for some reason, suddenly sure, dropping his other bouquet and picking up the yellow flowers next to the cash instead. _Definitely marigolds._

ii.

The first thing Emma notices when she comes back for a follow-up interview are the flowers, the burst of golden-yellow perched on the dresser at the far side of the room, a mysterious gift that had appeared during one of Kathryn’s naps with an even more unfamiliar name.

"Nice," she admires as Kathryn reaches for the water on her bedside table and takes a delicate sip, Emma thumbing the card to peer at the name and adding "Jim? As in, the gym teacher?" with a curious look.

"Jim the _gym_ teacher." Kathryn pulls a face mid-drink. "You've got to be kidding me."

The gym teacher, as Emma explains it, is the guy who found her car on the side of the road near the edge of town and called the sheriff's office.

"If it weren't for him, everyone would have figured you left for Boston," she says, in that sort of bright and wide-eyed, _well of course_ way she has of departing information. "I mean, it could have been days before we even knew you were missing."

_Missing_. That word deflates Kathryn a little, brings back the smells of antiseptic and dank, old air and sunlight filtered grey, the sleepy undercurrent of whatever drugs they'd fed her.

"My knight in shining armour, apparently," is what she mumbles instead, ignoring the sour look that crosses Emma's face. Only seconds later her expression changes again, shifting into muted shock and then a welcoming smile as her attention gets captured by something over Kathryn's shoulder.

"Jim," she says, shooting a meaningful glance at Kathryn, who sits up in surprise. "Hi."

Kathryn tracks Emma's gaze to the man standing in the doorway; the eyes and the hair and that _smile_ , it hits her with a force that takes her breath away, a sense of familiarity that's too overwhelming to be anything but, though she couldn't place him if she tried. He seems to be doing the same thing, brow creased in confusion, and through their slack-jawed silence Emma seems to take it as a cue to leave, promising to come later in the afternoon.

"I'm sorry," Kathryn asks, still bewildered, in the wake of Emma's departure. "Do I know you from somewhere?"

“I … found your car?” he laughs, like he realizes how crazy it seems, and Kathryn decides in an instant that she loves the sound. “Just wanted to check and see how you were feeling.”

“Better, thanks,” she smiles, resting back on her pillow as he takes a step into the room. “And thank you for what you did. Calling Emma and everything. And for the beautiful flowers.”

Jim cracks a grin at that, moving to the end of her bed and folding his fingers against the edge of the frame. “I’m, uh, I’m really glad you’re okay,” he says plainly, the levity leaving his expression, now a wash of concern. “When I heard, that they thought you were …”

“Yeah,” she interrupts, her throat going dry. “Yeah.”

Kathryn hates that the tears start then, tears she’s managed to hold back since Emma found her behind the diner, since the haze of the drugs lifted and she was left with an empty blackness where memories should be, fragments of half-remembered pieces and no reason why. _Dead, they all thought I was dead_. She turns, face flushing with embarrassment, and reaches up to wipe the tears away.

She doesn't notice Jim moving closer but then the hospital bed sinks under his weight, his grip curling gently around her hand, like a sign, a signal, _I’m here, I’m not going anywhere_.

She squeezes back.

iii.

Two weeks after Kathryn gets out of the hospital she shows up at the tail-end of his beginners' karate class, pacing a tight orbit around the back of the gym until he dismisses the kids.

"Kathryn, hi," he says, jogging over the mats to meet her, the question mark in his voice. She'd basically dropped off the earth since she was discharged, and the 'N' page in Storybrooke's barely existent phone book had stayed circled and dog-eared, closed, on his kitchen counter. "How're you doing?"

"Better, thanks." He doesn't miss how tight her smile gets, how one hand strays up to tuck her hair behind her ear, the tension in the set of her shoulders; frustrated, angry. Scared, maybe. Beautiful, still. "So do you just teach these classes to the kids?"

For the first time, he notices that she's wearing workout clothes, a gym bag slung over one arm, and the pieces start coming together.

"Six to 18 usually," he says slowly, "why?"

"I -- I deferred my first semester at law school." She shakes her head, biting her bottom lip, and Jim's struck by such a deep sense of longing, this desperate urge to do _something_ for her, can only stare helplessly at his hands as Kathryn continues. "I was just so _sure_ I was ready to go, to leave Storybrooke and start over in this amazing new life and then ... someone kept me in a basement for _days_. I don't know who it was, if they're still out there waiting to do it again, and part of it's the investigation and that I want to help find the bastard who did this, but now I just can't seem to leave --"

She stops herself, suddenly, like all the breath's collapsed out of her lungs, her fingers going back to worry the same lock of hair. "I want to learn -- I want you to teach me. It's something tangible, you know? A way I can protect myself, until we catch the guy." That same, tight smile shows up again, like she's cradling so carefully everything that wants to spill out just behind it, and it damn near breaks his heart.

There's no hesitation this time. "Okay."

"Okay?" Surprise filters across Kathryn's features, chased by pleasure. "Even if I'm a little older than the rest of your students?"

"Hey, maybe you'll pay more attention," he grins, a funny twisting in his gut at her smile, full of relief and like he's given her something, however tenuous, to hold on to. "Wanna try it out? I can show you some beginner techniques."

"Sure," Kathryn replies, a little more evenly, dropping her bag to the side and meeting to move him on a mat. Jim shifts behind her, positioning them in front of the mirror.

"This is heiko-dachi, or open parallel stance," he instructs, touching her hips lightly and showing her where to plant her feet, trying not to crowd her. "And this," he continues, raising her right hand to her ear then sweeping her arm down and out, supporting it with his own, "is soto-uke, which is an outside forearm block. Good?"

Kathryn glances up at him, and he swears he sees something in her eyes that makes him feel like he's been waiting to be looked at like that. For _her_ to look at him like that.

She smiles.

"Good."

iv.

He makes it up to her porch before he freezes.

In all the stupid shit Jim figures he's pulled in his life -- screwing up his shoulder senior year and losing his full-ride scholarship to Ohio State, not talking to his father for the last five years of his life, getting stuck in Storybrooke like he always, _always_ promised himself he wouldn't -- this has got to rank up there pretty damn high.

He'd dropped Kathryn off at her place after a karate lesson the other week, fumbling through a drawn-out goodbye in the front seat of his car. Now somehow he's back here, on a cold Friday night, watching his breath frost in the air and debating if he's qualified for stalker territory yet. Okay, not _somehow_ , exactly -- he'd gone out for a couple beers with some of the other teachers after work, and decided to walk the long way home. Which, completely incidentally, led right past Kathryn's house.

Jim isn't a brave guy -- the path of least resistance and all that. Which is why he's a gym teacher and not playing football (as much as he does love teaching). Which is why his father could barely remember his name, at the end (forgiveness scares him more than almost anything else). Which is why he's still _here_ (though meeting Kathryn, crazy as it sounds, is starting to finally make it feel like it was the right choice).

If he does this, it'll be one of the bravest ( _stupidest_ ) things he's ever done.

He knocks.

\--

She's not expecting anyone at all, so the knock at the front door takes her by surprise. Even more surprise than usual these days, when every nerve in her body feels like it's alight, on fire with all the tension and frustration and paranoia; the last thing she wants to be is what everyone expects, staying cooped up in her house and locked away, like their sympathy's well-placed -- poor little Kathryn, dumped by her husband and then kidnapped, the eternal victim.

(But her phone stays off and her favourite black dress and her completely impractical heels stay tucked away in her closet, and instead, there's a bottle of red wine and a chenille throw and really bad cable to keep her company.)

There's another knock after the first, more tentative than before, as she abandons her wine glass on the coffee table and goes to the door. One lock gets shifted out of place, and then another, and Kathryn cracks the door open to Jim of all people, fidgeting on her doorstep with his hands shoved into the pockets of his coat.

"Hi," she says softly after a pause, wrapping her sweater around herself against the chill and leaning her hip against the doorframe. “Nice to see you.”

“You too,” Jim says, lips twitching into a smile, still looking sheepish. “Was in the neighbourhood, saw your lights on.”

Something inside her goes warm at that. “Well, come inside then. It’s freezing out.”

It’s strange, at first, having Jim in her house, settled onto the same couch where David used to sit, surrounded by the old photos she still hasn’t had the energy to put away since she got home from the hospital. But then he cracks another joke that’s just this side of terrible, or looks at her with so much tenderness, and it’s still a little strange, but strange like _how wasn’t he here before?_ , like how didn’t she notice this void until David, in his graceless way, woke her up from her sleepwalking life.

They talk and drink wine and talk more, about things like work and growing up in Storybrooke (wondering over the fact they never managed to cross paths before) and her non-starter marriage and his string of relationships that never really went anywhere, things she'd never said to David, so freely and so openly it all just sort of spills out, and eventually Kathryn notices that they've both migrated to the middle of the couch, pulled in close to each other's space.

She leans in to him a little, without meaning to, just falling into a natural kind of gravity that says she needs to be closer to him. Jim mimics the same, head bowing gently against hers. He smells like clean laundry and the faintest traces of his night before this -- smoke and whiskey and cold night air -- and then her hands find his face, moving to frame the line of his jaw, fingers curling against slope of his neck.

"Is this crazy?"

His voice is soft, and she laughs at that and then he does too, still so close that the sound reverberates with a low sort of rumble through her chest. "Maybe," she whispers back, still smiling, and it makes her _ache_ , that tremble of tension that lets her know she could just lean over, just tilt her chin even slightly and make all of this real. It's an ache that pierces deep, tightens through her shoulders, arms, frozen in stillness and with how much she wants to -- it shocks her just how much -- and then Jim grins at her again and she kisses him.

He kisses her back, hard, one arm wrapping around the small of her back, the other tangling in her hair as they fumble through it (too much force, not enough finesse) and she half forgets how to do this but _god_ , it feels so good she doesn't know how she could have. And then Jim's hand is tracing the curve of her thigh as he keeps kissing her, palm hot through the material of her jeans, and she wonders if it was ever like this with her and David -- so desperate, so wrapped up in each other -- and if it was, she can't remember, and maybe it’s the wine or his touch or how he keeps looking at her like she’s so precious --

“Jim.” She pants out his name, pulling back a little but still close enough to feel his breath, hot and shallow, along her cheek. “Jim.”

“What’s wrong?” He sounds almost frantic, hands framing her shoulders and staring at her intently. “Are you okay?”

"Nothing, nothing -- I'm fine," she says, her hand resting against his chest; not pushing away but holding them in the moment. "I just -- maybe we should slow this down? It's a lot for me, all of this, right now. It’s just … not easy."

Jim nods, easing into a smile. He shifts back on the couch and Kathryn swears she feels the distance, right down to her bones. "I should probably get going."

She leads him to the door, and he's practically out on the porch when he stops in his tracks and turns around, stepping back and leaning into her, lips barely grazing her cheek. The ghost of a kiss.

It feels like a promise; _I'll wait for you_.

Even after he leaves, it lingers with her.

_I'll wait_.

i.

It's been a month and a half since she got out of the hospital, but school doesn't start until the fall and she can't seem to find the energy to go back to work, and so she's left drifting aimlessly, redecorating her house ( _the Nolan's_ sign gets taken to the dump, the wedding photos stashed deep in an upstairs closet), drinking countless cups of coffee at Granny's, volunteering for whatever bake sales comes up.

So when her friends on the PTA mention chaperoning the school dance, Kathryn jumps at the chance, pointedly ignoring the stares, the looks of pity, the whispers of _Mary Margaret_.

It's not about her. She's not going to _let_ it be about her -- she and David are together and happy and that's good. The way they did it -- definitely _not_ good -- but she's willing to move past the lying and the cheating because now it feels like things with David never really fit to begin with, like not being with him anymore has finally stripped away some kind of invisible weight from her shoulders, the illusions of what they had.

She's dialled Jim's number more than a dozen times since that night at her house, never getting past the third digit. Kathryn's not sure what there is to say -- she asked him for time, and he's given it to her; the rest she's making up as she goes along -- but it hasn't stopped the _want_ , the strange, tenuous connection to him she still feels. When she shows up at the school gym -- decked out in balloons and streamers and spangly stars hanging from the ceiling, pockets of giggling girls clustered together along one wall, sullen boys at another -- she doesn't see Jim at first. Eventually, as the night wears on and she's helped refill the punch and re-hung some of the wilting decorations, she finally spots him. He's at the other side of the room, chatting with some of the other teachers, and the sight of him, it hits her with almost as much force as the first time. She's so caught up in it that she doesn't notice the dark-haired boy hovering nearby until he's right next to her.

"Hi, Mrs. Nolan!" Henry chirps. He perches by her side on the front-row bleachers and starts pulling at his tie with irritation. "What are you doing here?"

"Hi Henry," she smiles warmly in greeting. "Just helping out. Why aren't you dancing?"

"Dunno." The boy shrugs, turning away to watch his classmates sway to the music. "Don't feel like it. Why aren't you?"

Knowing, dark eyes meet hers when she looks down, Henry turning his gaze to Jim with purpose. "I like him," he continues without pause; pleasant, conversational. "He's really nice. He makes sure I never get picked last for dodgeball."

A pause, then -- "you should go dance with him."

Kathryn laughs, incredulous, staring at Henry in surprise. "What makes you say that?"

"Dunno." Henry's smile brightens, and he rises from the bleachers to rejoin the other kids. "Just an idea. Bye, Mrs. Nolan!"

She's left stunned to silence and her thoughts racing, and that’s when her gaze finally catches Jim’s from across the gym, and it’s still there, whatever’s been pulling them together. It feels like more than just a simple action, when she gets up and crosses the room. Like she’s putting something in motion. Something important.

She reaches out to Jim, extending her hand.

“May I have this dance?”

He accepts with a grin, taking her hand and following her out into the throngs of kids gathered at the start of a slow song. They settle into the music, drawing closer together.

“So I was thinking,” Kathryn says, unable to stop the way her feelings colour her voice, bringing her arms to rest along Jim’s shoulders, “would you like to have dinner sometime?”

He beams at her.

“I would love to.”

She can’t help but smile back at him, reflecting the same; elation, surprise. Hope.

And she doesn’t say anything after that, because she was right before -- there isn’t anything she needs to. She doesn’t need words -- just the feel of Jim’s hands at her waist, the weight of his body against hers, realizing that even if she doesn’t know where she’s going, she’s headed in the right direction.

It feels like they're taking their time, making their own way.

The song keeps playing, and Kathryn’s rests her cheek against Jim’s shoulder, listening to the rhythm of his breathing.

In-and-out, over and over, never ending.


End file.
